


Wildest Dreams

by killaidanturner



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: 1950s Slang, Aidan and Dean are guess what, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - World War II, Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Epistolary, Fingerfucking, Happy Ending, Hollywood, Humor, M/M, Old Hollywood - Freeform, Smut, World War II, elements of ptsd, hollywood actors in the 50s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaidanturner/pseuds/killaidanturner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean O'Gorman is Hollywood's leading man, with a no holds barred attitude. Aidan Turner is a supporting actor when they get cast opposite each other in a war movie based during the North African Campaign. </p><p>Dean just doesn't know Aidan's already seen his share of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildest Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't even know what to say, just, try not to let the tags throw you off.

“What’s this for?”

 

“It’s a script.”

 

“Obviously. I have seen a script before.” Dean picks up the pages and reads the title. “Another war movie?”

 

“It’s a little different though.”

 

“How so?” He opens up the script and starts flipping through the pages.

 

“It’s about two friends who get drafted together, they serve in the North African Campaign.”

 

“Africa? Might be a bit like a holiday.”

 

Dean’s agent lights a cigarette and smiles at him. “Thought you might like it.”

 

“MGM?”

 

“No, Twentieth Century Fox.”

 

“That’s a bit better, MGM is too mixed up in the black-list.”

 

“Would you care either way?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“You never did care what anyone thought of you. Last movie you did, you kicked the director off of set and took over.”

 

“Never have, sure as hell not gonna start now. Besides, they kept his name on the credits, not like everyone knew what happened.” Dean grabs his leather jacket from the back of the seat in his agent’s office. He swings it over his shoulder and leaves the office without a glance back.

 

Dean wasn’t a bad boy, not the way everyone thought he was. He left that title up to James Dean. No, Dean just didn’t care what anyone thought about him. He was here to do good work, and he didn’t care what happened in the process of it.

 

It made him difficult to work with at times. People had been recast because he couldn’t seem to get along with anyone who he felt weren’t pulling their weight or contributing to the film in a way he deemed respectable.

 

It was infuriating, directors yelled at him, crew members sighed and dreaded their long days. But after opening, when the reviews would pour out and talks of awards started happening, it was nothing but praise about Dean. Reporters and journalists clamouring for interviews and all of a sudden directors would have nothing but kind words to say about him.

 

The thought of it brought a smile to his lips as he stepped out onto Hollywood Boulevard.

 

* * *

 

“Have they cast who is going to be my co-star?” Dean sits at a table in a restaurant across from his agent. the lighting is dim and the place seems to be packed with actors, studio execs, and every name you could possibly imagine in Hollywood. It was important that you were seen here, at _Musso and Franks_. It’s where most deals were cut, papers slid across tables, and handshakes happened over martinis.

 

“Some newbie, seems to be pretty green.” Dean’s agent was like everyone else's agent in Hollywood, a shark in sharp suits. He could charm anyone and Dean paid him a great deal of money to do so.

 

“Have I heard of him?”

 

“Aidan Turner.”

 

“Oh fuck me, they’re casting me next to a no-name? I have better things to do than to carry some fucking kid throughout a whole movie. He’ll probably want to read lines.”

 

“I don’t know boss, I heard he did the whole razzle dazzle in auditions.”

 

* * *

 

Dean wants the final say, the final sign off on his co-star.

 

He’s standing in the casting room, a panel of crew members at a table in front of him. His sleeves on his white shirt are rolled twice, making his arms look more muscular. He puts his hands in his denim as he waits for them to bring in Aidan.

 

When the door opens and two people walk in, it’s definitely not what Dean was expecting.

 

He knows which one is Aidan, not because he’s seen him before but from how he carries himself.

 

He’s taller than Dean, his waist thin and shoulders broad. His jaw is perfectly chiseled, if he were to clench his teeth Dean is certain he would be able to see the veins in his neck. His hair is short on the sides but the top is a little longer, long enough for there to be a few misplaced curls resting on his forehead. His eyebrows are thick, making his features look like they're in constant contemplation of something of importance.

 

Until he reaches out his hand, and offers it to Dean. His face is suddenly broken out in a smile, crinkles around his dark eyes.

 

“Aidan Turner.” There’s a slight accent to his words, mainly american with an undertone of something else.

 

Dean clears his throat, but doesn’t take Aidan’s hand. “Dean O’Gorman.”

 

They play out the scene where they enlist together. Aidan doesn’t have the script in his hands, and neither does Dean though it was offered to them both. Dean always memorizes everyone's lines, and Aidan, well Aidan remembers his and plays the rest by ear.

 

For the first time in years, Dean doesn’t realize that he’s acting.

 

Some words stumble from his mouth, some come in hitches of his breath. He’s lucky he thinks, that it calls for his character to be nervous, so no one can see how Aidan has found a thread and he’s slowly tugging at it, trying to unravel.

 

When the scene is over, Aidan turns to his agent beaming at him. The table is filled with whispers, waiting for Dean’s reaction.

 

Dean runs his hand along the back of his neck before outstretching it to Aidan. “See you on set.” When Aidan’s hand touches his, they’re rougher, not soft, as an actors should be. Dean doesn’t mind though, he takes a second to feel the callouses and ridges before letting go. He doesn’t say anything else before he leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

It's two months before filming starts.

 

Dean spends his time watching the few films Aidan had been in prior. Always a supporting role, never a lead. He asks his agent to get copies of all the films.

 

“Why? You’ve never watched anyone's work but your own.”

 

“I’m not telling you to ask me why, just do it.”

 

By the end of it, he wonders why no one has put him front and center, why there aren’t directors and producers clamouring for a chance to work with him.

 

“What the fuck am I doing?” Dean pulls the roll of film off of the projector and puts it back in the canister. He sits back down in his chair, with a glass of scotch to his lips.

 

Its another tug on the string.

 

* * *

 

Dean was used to camera flashes, to the loud sound of the shutter as his picture was taken, was used to red carpets under his feet and a dame on his arm.

 

He was not used to the heat of an African desert. More importantly he was not used to co-stars that were better than him.

 

When the director called cut, he stormed off of set and into his tent. It was flimsy, an off white canvas material. It was all they could manage to bring out here, he was told the camera equipment was more important than trailers.

 

He waits for his co-star to come into the tent, waits to see his dark curls and sharp angles. A part of him expects him to throw cutting words, to yell at him for storming off set. He waits with words sitting on his tongue, ready for anything his co-star has to say. Ready to yell at him, _“Why didn't you tell me? You should have said you were **good.”**_

 

He doesn’t come.

 

* * *

 

Aidan Turner sits on one of the wooden crates that they’re using as a prop with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

 

They had only been on set for three weeks and Aidan was already used to Dean’s outbursts, to his demands.

 

Today was different though, today was a spark that lit the plains around them on fire. Aidan could imagine the flames licking away at his skin as the smoke burned his lungs.

 

He was avoiding going to the tent, _their_ tent. They grouped a lot of the actors together to try to save room travelling with everything through these long stretches of land. He hated it, hated the way that Dean took up most of the tent, how he seemed to not even notice him.

 

He had heard about Dean O’Gorman, everyone had, he was one of Hollywood’s leading men. He was stationed out during the war, drafted like most actors had been. But like most actors he was stationed somewhere outside of the war zone, somewhere where he could contribute but not be in the trenches.

 

Aidan wasn’t so lucky, he hadn’t started acting yet when his draft notice showed up. He was packing up his bags, ready to head out to California when it arrived. His mother wept and his father kept his jaw firm, a hand clasped on his back as he said, “do our country proud.”

 

At night he tries to forget the sound of tanks rolling across damp earth, of missiles flying past his ears. Of tortured screams and his friends broken whispers, _“tell them I’m sorry, tell my mom I love her. Aidan, Aidan, Aidan.”_ How his name died on another's lips. He tries to forget how the cold wrapped around his body, working its way to his bones to rattle them.

 

He tries to forget the way bullets felt in his hand, the weight of a gun pressed into his palm and a trigger against his finger. He tries to forget the sound a dying man makes, how their body convulses, and blood seeps from their mouth. Mostly he tries to forget the glassy eyes, how they became haunted and hollow.

 

He remembers the sound of static coming through radios, of transmissions and orders. He remembers constant bad news, remembers waiting for the day when he would be whispering someone's name from his lips as his heart stopped. He always wondered whose name he would be whispering, if it would be a name at all or something else entirely.

 

He tried to plot it out, spent his down time thinking about it. Perhaps it would be something worthy enough to go in the newspaper, or in a book. That people would talk about the man who died in the trenches and of his last words. He hoped that if that day came, he would be in one piece to be able to say something.

 

During his time he wrote letters, countless letters. He wrote on anything he could find and he would fold it up and put it in his pocket. People wrote letters to loved ones, to wives and girlfriends. Aidan never sent his letters, never wrote them to anyone in particular. It was something to do, a way to say what he couldn’t say out loud.  Sometimes the letters contained his would be last words, what he would want others to hear from him as his life was taken.

 

It’s the only thing he keeps from the war, his only token. Faded yellow parchment and a shaking hand. He keeps them in a small dresser inside the tent underneath a folded shirt.

 

Here they were, years later, making a movie about the war. He laughs, twisted and dark as he looks up at the night sky, to the countless stars that litter it.

 

“Are you going to stay out here all night or are you coming to the tent? I’m not going to have you coming in in the middle of the night and waking me up.” Dean commands behind him and Aidan can feel a smirk playing on his lips. He’s thankful Dean can't see him, Dean who has to control.

 

“Didn’t know I had a bed time.”

 

“We share a fucking tent, I don’t want you waking me up. We have to be up early enough as is.” Aidan listens intently at Dean’s words. Others may think them rude and crass, but Aidan listens to the lilt in them. The long pronunciation of his vowels, the baritone that rumbles on chords.

 

“Yes, Captain.” Aidan salutes Dean then drops his cigarette to the ground, his shoe stomping out the embers.

 

Dean turns around quickly, “is that supposed to be a fucking joke?”

 

“You were a captain weren’t you? Saw your dog tags the other day.” Aidan pushes past Dean, leaving him speechless in his wake.

 

Dean doesn’t talk about his time served, of his fake title or where he was stationed. Doesn’t want people to know he spent that time in the warmth of a base, looking over paperwork.

 

* * *

 

Aidan falls asleep with the sheets tangled around his ankles.

 

Dean falls asleep with his eyes on a mess of curls, and words in this throat.

 

* * *

 

Aidan spent so much time trying to weed out what was in his heart, that he never realized that there was nothing left in there but dirt and dust. That his heart became it’s own trench and that numbness has it’s own kind of misery.

 

* * *

 

Dean can’t stand it, can’t stand how unaffected Aidan seems to be.

 

“Can I get Noah and Michael in their places please!” The assistant director shouts across the open tundra. Aidan is leaning against a tree, it’s leaves barren. Dean watches his movements, how he carries himself with squared shoulders to his mark.

 

When they get to their places, camera ready to roll is when Dean says something.

 

“You don’t wear your tags.”

 

“How did you know?” Aidan narrows his eyes.

 

“Trigger finger. You’re always tapping a pen or have a cigarette between your fingers. You’re used to the feel of a gun.” Dean poises his hand as if it’s pulling a trigger, and aims it at Aidan. Dean doesn’t tell him he remembers the way that his hand felt in his the first time they shook hands.

 

Aidan quickly looks away and tries not to remember looking down the barrel of a gun. He wants to grab Dean by his wrists and twist him around, to restrain him and whisper into his ears, _“do you know what it’s like to have another's blood on your hands?”_ Instead he takes a shaking breath and tries not to feel the tremor in his hands.

 

An assistant moves in front of them, clapper board in their hand. She snaps it indicating the scene is rolling as the director screams, “action!”

 

* * *

 

It’s getting under his skin, Aidan’s calm demeanor. Dean watches him intently, trying to figure out his actions. He doesn’t talk much to the other actors, or to the crew members at first. But by the third week he doesn’t seem to shut up. He treats Dean like he doesn’t exist. If Dean walks past a conversation, Aidan just keeps talking. Anyone else would have quickly stopped their words and ensured that Dean was apart of whatever was happening.

 

Aidan is filled with anecdotes, of funny stories from before the war. He doesn’t talk about being drafted. He doesn’t talk about his goodbyes. Instead he talks about old friends, of the attitude of New Yorkers.

 

He makes sure to have stories from filming as well, but never anything filled with gossip. He only speaks of over exaggerated situations and most of the time how he found himself in odd predicaments. They earn laughs at the right moments and “aws” at the other.

 

He fits himself into everyone's space, into their lives somehow. He’s sitting on crates, on chairs, on equipment, his hands crafting skylines and smoke as he talks.

 

Dean waits till their alone, in their vast tent before talking. “Where are you from?”

 

“New York.”

 

“You don’t sound like a Yorker.” Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed pulling off his shoes.

 

“Yeah, what do I sound like?” Aidan turns his back as he pulls off his shirt, Dean tries not to focus on the taut muscles, how they move under his skin slowly and stretch across his bones.

 

“There’s a faint accent in some of your words.” Dean’s voice comes out rougher than he intended.

 

“Irish.”

 

“You’re Irish?”

 

“I was born on a boat, from there to New York. My parents were fleeing. Listened to them talk my whole life, so yeah sometimes their tones slip through.”

 

“I like it.” Dean wants to ask why they were leaving, why they needed to come here.

 

“What?”

 

“I like it, it’s different. You don’t sound stuffy like most people, like you’re taking too long to get your words out. You’re quicker.”

 

It’s the longest conversation they’ve had and Aidan is trying not to focus on the fact that it came across as a compliment. Even if he were to tell anyone, no one would believe that the words came from Dean. “You trying to say I talk a lot?”

 

Dean laughs at this, “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve heard that.

 

Aidan doesn’t know how to say it’s the first time anyone has said they liked his voice.

 

* * *

 

The days scene takes some time to set up, they have to bring in tanks, and ensure all the extras are in costume. No one needs either of them for a while. Dean doesn’t know what to do to pass the time so he says the first thing that comes to his mind, “do you want to read lines?”

 

Aidan turns to look at Dean slowly, his eyebrows raised in question. “Heard you didn’t read lines.”

 

“I don’t, but I’m also not used to playing a character that shares so much screen time.” Dean smirks at Aidan who grins back him.

 

“Where to then?”

 

“Our tent?”

 

* * *

 

Dean has the lines memorized, Aidan knows it. They don’t say anything though, as they both sit on the edge of the bed with their knees touching.

 

Aidan can feel the empty space between his heart and his ribs starting to fill, there's a seed planting and he's just waiting for the wild bloom.

 

* * *

 

This time when Dean storms off, kicking over a box on his way out into the dry heat, Aidan follows. “You just love agitating the gravel don’t you?”

 

“You saying something?” Dean spins around to face Aidan.

 

“I’m saying you throw a lot of tantrums for someone who’s spoken so highly of.” Aidan doesn’t understand what went wrong, just this morning they were reading over today’s lines and Dean had seemed so much more relaxed.

 

“Do you know why I have to walk off this set a lot?” Dean is done hiding from Aidan, he wants him to _know._

 

“Because they can’t cater to your every whim out in the middle of the desert.” It’s matter of fact to Aidan, based off of Dean’s reputation.

 

“No, because you’re a good fucking actor. You’re brilliant in fact. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand how you don’t even notice.” Dean wants to pull at his own hair for emphasis, to show all of his frustrations and how he’s been bottling them up.

 

“I...what?”

 

“A good fucking actor, probably even better than me. I spend my days on set waiting for everyone to notice.” Dean walks over to the small dresser by his bed and pulls out a bottle of dark amber liquid, pouring it into a crystal tumbler.

 

“If I’m better than I usually am it’s because I’m trying to keep up with you.”  Aidan snatches the tumbler from Dean’s hand and knocks the liquid back in one go. He runs the back of his hand across his lips and wipes away the excess liquid. It burns going down his throat, until it rests in his stomach.

 

The thing that’s been manifesting between them is finally taking shape.

 

Dean pulls Aidan by his shirt collar towards him and smashes their lips together. He pulls Aidan’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucks the taste of whiskey off of him. Aidan doesn’t push him back, instead he grabs Dean by the belt loops of his trousers and pulls them closer together.

 

Dean grips Aidan’s shirt harder, biting his bottom lip. Aidan lets out a moan as his fingers make their way to Dean’s belt.

 

Aidan knows how to be quiet, knows how to keep his moans low and his movements simple. It was something he learned in Germany, in the cold winters and the only way to stay warm was to share a bed roll.

 

But when Dean’s hand wraps around his cock he lets out a deep moan, and his hips thrust forward.

 

Dean lets go of Aidan’s bottom lip and trails his lips along Aidan’s jaw and to his neck. His hands are yanking off Aidan’s shirt and tossing it far off somewhere in their tent. His lips find Aidan’s skin again and make a mark on his collarbone that will be hidden by his shirt.

 

“Stop acting like you aren’t any good.” Dean pants it out as Aidan’s hand reaches inside Dean’s trousers to find his hard and leaking cock.

 

“Stop acting like you’re God's gift to this green Earth.” Aidan smirks against Dean’s lips as he reaches up for another kiss.

 

The ache that he had reaching for a light he thought was out of his grasp is starting to feel more tangible. Dean tastes like the sun's warmth, his skin feels of the desert heat and the hair on his body feels as if it was spun in gold.

 

Aidan runs a hand under Dean’s shirt, his fingers feeling the hair there. He groans again and thrusts his hips faster.

 

Dean lets go of him in order to undress faster. He’s pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his trousers, “in the bed, now.” It’s the same way he barks orders on set and Aidan tries not to smile at this.

 

Dean works him open with spit and sweat slicked skin.

 

When Dean finally enters him it's a little bit rough and dry but Aidan doesn’t mind the burn that accompanies it. He arches his back to adjust himself better. Dean seats himself all the way in Aidan, his tight heat wrapped around his cock.

 

Dean hadn’t been with a man in years, not since he first started acting. He forgot how different it feels, how taut muscles and rugged skin could feel so good.

 

Aidan’s orgasm growls thunder through his skin and hits him like a violent storm. His stomach covered in pearly rope.

 

Dean comes a moment later, Aidan moans at the feeling of Dean inside him. Dean presses his lips to Aidan’s neck as he takes two fingers and runs them through the mess on Aidan’s stomach. He leans up to look at Aidan’s face, his hair sticking to his forehead and places his fingertips to Aidan’s lips.

 

Aidan welcomes them, swallows them down to the back of his throat tasting himself on his tongue.

 

“Fuck.” Dean groans out as he slowly moves his fingers in Aidan’s mouth. Aidan hollows his cheeks and sucks on them hard, making a loud popping noise when they leave his mouth.

 

Dean collapses next to Aidan, his chest heaving.

 

He doesn’t tell him to get out of his bed and Aidan doesn’t make a motion to do so. His eyes try to search Aidan’s in the dark, but his eyes are as inky as the night sky in this light and Dean can’t tell what he’s thinking.

 

Aidan wonders if Dean can see the forest of thorns behind his eyes.

 

They fall asleep like that, looking into each other's eyes, trying to find something. A hint? A hope? A barren wasteland where no man lives?

 

In the middle of the night, their arms wrap around each other.

 

When Dean wakes, it’s to the absence of warmth and an empty tent.

 

* * *

 

During their days, Aidan sticks next to Dean, both of them huddled underneath the limited shade of the barren trees.

 

Their shoulders are alway touching, and voices low in whispers.

 

The first time the cast hears Dean’s laugh, loud and rolling, they all turn to look.

 

Dean has his hands on his sides as he bends over, trying to catch his breath.

 

“I swear it happened!” Aidan is exclaiming with a smile on his face.

 

“There’s no way.” Dean can barely get the words out between his laughter.

 

“You did not watch Marlon Fucking Brando trip over an electrical cord.” Dean is standing up now with his eyes narrowed.

 

“It happened! Whole crafts table went flying through the air as he landed on it. Food all over the set, all over the director.”

 

“What was it like?”

 

“A disaster is what it was, did you not hear the story?” Aidan is laughing now.

 

“Not that. Working on _‘The Wild One’_?”

 

“Oh that? It was just a lot of sitting around on a motorcycle and scowling like this.” Aidan fixes his eyebrows so they make his face look a little meaner, narrows his eyes, and pouts his lips.

 

Dean can’t help but laugh again at the face Aidan is making. “You don’t look intimidating at all.”

 

“Oh but also a lot of leather jackets.” Aidan fixes his face again and Dean has to look away from laughing so hard. “Don’t you ride a bike?”

 

“Occasionally.”

 

“Do all of you have a motorcycle gang? You and Marlon and James.” Aidan wiggles his eyebrows and Dean narrows his.

 

“I am not in a biker gang with them.”

 

“Too cool?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns to walk away from Aidan.

 

“All of you have that dark brooding look.” Aidan’s legs are a lot longer than Dean’s so he catches up to him very quickly, hands shoved in his pockets.

 

Dean turns quickly on Aidan and Aidan laughs so hard he has to stop walking and throw his head back. He laughs so hard his eyes start to water.

 

Dean is standing there giving him the same look that Aidan was giving him a few moments ago, scowling features and a pouting lip.

 

It’s after that day that the whispers start.

 

* * *

 

“If you keep talking to me you’re going to lose your reputation as a bad boy.” Aidan is leaning on his arms on the make up table as he looks at Dean who’s sitting in a chair waiting for his hair to be done.

 

Dean shrugs, “or maybe, you’ll change your reputation.”

 

Aidan smiles at Dean and Dean tries to fight the one playing at his lips.

 

* * *

 

“You do know that people are talking, right?” Aidan asks one night as he crawls into Dean’s bed.

 

“Let them talk.” Dean pulls Aidan down to him, pressing their lips together in a slow kiss.

 

Aidan doesn’t know how to say that he’s worried.

 

Dean manages to quiet the static of his mind with skilled hands and heat dry lips, he covers his scars with soft kisses and teeth marks.

 

* * *

 

Dean is going over a script change with their director, Billy Wilder, when Billy says something to him.

 

“He’s very good, isn't he?”

 

“The best.” Dean replies automatically.

 

“He’s taken some of the bite out of you.”

 

Dean looks up from the script to see a sly smile playing on Billy’s face.

 

“That’s what happens when there’s actually another good actor on set.”

 

They leave the conversation at that, Dean begins to wonder if he’s changed that much already.

 

The string unravels further.

 

* * *

 

“What’s wrong with you today?” Dean asks irritated.

 

“I shouldn’t have taken this role.”

 

Dean assumes it has something to do with him, something to do with what they’ve been doing between the sheets at night. How Dean has been making Aidan say his name in low whimpered gasps.

 

“Why? What’s so hard for you?” Dean is egging him, trying to get him to say, _‘we can’t do this anymore.’_

 

“I left home as a boy! I went into another country as a child! And when I came back, I came back tiresome and worn. So yeah, sometimes I may seem somber, it’s because I’m remembering how blood looks like spreading through a shirt!” Aidan’s bottom lip is trembling, his shoulders shaking as he tries to prevent his body from being racked with sobs.

 

Dean exhales, deep, immediately regretting his words. He pulls Aidan to him, running his hands down his back. It’s not what he was expecting. They never talk about Aidan’s time served, never talk about him being 18 and slight, never talk about the long cold winters or how many men died at his hands.

 

Dean can feel tears seeping through his shirt and he just pulls Aidan closer to him, lets him cry until his voice is hoarse. Repeating nonsense into his ears, “it’s ok, it’s going to be ok.” He was never good at comfort but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

 

Hours pass and they’re laying on the bed, Aidan’s head on Dean’s chest listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. It’s the only thing keeping him from slipping to the place he doesn’t allow himself to go.

 

“Thirty-Seven. I killed thirty-seven men.” Aidan whispers it and then turns his face into Dean’s chest, breathing him in.

 

“It was for the war Aid, I’m sure others killed a lot more.” Dean closes his eyes after he says it.

 

“How many did you kill?” Aidan lifts up his head to look into Dean’s eyes.

 

“None.” He bites the inside of his cheek after he says it, hating that they’re doing this.

 

“Then you can’t tell me it was for the war.” He puts his head back down and leaves it at that.

 

When his breathing finally evens out and his hand loosens its grip on Dean’s shirt, Dean whispers, “it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

 

* * *

 

Aidan falls asleep with Dean’s words in his ear.

 

Dean falls asleep with more of his string unraveled.

 

* * *

 

A thumb traces over Aidan’s bottom lip, “we can’t let anyone know, they’ll want us to ask god for forgiveness.”

 

Dean smiles before leaning in, “good thing I don’t believe in him then.” He kisses Aidan softly before Aidan turns the kiss more heated, fighting to get onto Dean’s lap.

 

“I can make you.” Aidan grinds down into Dean’s lap, his thighs tightening around Dean.

 

“Is that so?” Dean’s hands are running up and down Aidan’s sides, light touch of his fingers sending shivers down both of their spines.

 

“By the end of the night, I’ll have you screaming his name and begging him.”

 

He wants Dean to feel atonement, to know that there is such a thing as redemption. That he feels it at night when Dean’s fingers are slowly working him open and the ache in his chest is finally gone.

 

“Make me beg for it Turner.” Dean falls back on the bed as Aidan’s hand undoes Dean’s trousers.

 

Dean’s never been on the receiving end, never let Aidan be inside him. Aidan doesn’t know when he will get the chance again so he make sure that this time counts.

 

Dean calls out Aidan’s name, and God’s. When he does Aidan smiles against Dean’s skin.

 

 _“God, god, god, fuck me harder. Fuck.”_ It’s a bedroom hymn and Dean has the words memorized.

 

* * *

 

Aidan offers Dean an apple.

 

“When offered an apple, you take it.” Dean says as he reaches for the fruit in Aidan’s hand.

 

“Who said that?”

 

“The Bible.”

 

“No it doesn’t, it says the opposite of that.”

 

“Didn’t they eat the apple from the garden and become gods?” Dean asks as he bites into the red skin of an apple, looking up at Aidan who is standing in front of him.

 

“Did you even go to mass?” Aidan asks with a laugh.

 

“I’m sure that's what happened, you eat the apple and become a god, and revel in your paradise.” Dean stretches out his hands indicating the tent.

 

Aidan realizes they aren’t talking about the Bible anymore.

 

* * *

 

Dean tries to figure out how loving Aidan seems so simple. How all of a sudden Aidan is in memories he was never in before, slotting himself into Dean’s life as if he’s always been there. All of a sudden Aidan was there during his first audition, during his big break, when he got his first award. Aidan sitting on the corner of a desk at a base in London, giving Dean shit for being a paper pusher, flipping through papers and making jokes about everyone around them.

 

Dean realizes that he's in trouble.

 

* * *

 

Dean waits for a day when Aidan is busy filming his own scenes when he decides to look in the top drawer of Aidan’s small dresser. He moves the few cotton shirts in there aside to see a stack of papers.

 

He pulls out the off color parchment and sits on the bed.

 

He knew something was in there, he could hear the crinkle of the papers when Aidan would grab a shirt to wear under his costumes.

 

He figures a part of him should feel guilty, but there’s a bigger part that wants to know more. That wants to understand.

 

* * *

 

_Everyone talks about someone back home. I don’t have anyone to talk about. Just my parents and it's too painful to mention them. That they brought me over here to this country and here I am trying to fight for it._

* * *

 

_When I get out of here, I’m going to have stories. I’ll have something to say and I’ll make sure that it’s important and that people will want to listen._

* * *

 

_James died today, we were in the trenches when a grenade hit. All I saw was dirt flying, my ears rang for hours after. I crawled my way to him, his legs had been blown off. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, just a garbled sound._

_I wrapped my hands around his throat to end it, I couldn’t see him in anymore pain._

_He was the first life I took._

* * *

 

_At night I can hear James talk. How he spoke of Jane with kindness, of her soft smile and doe like eyes. I hate that she doesn’t know yet. That there is some woman out there, with her hands clasped in her lap and her back straight, speaking of her boyfriend who went off to war._

_I wonder how hard she’ll weep._

* * *

 

_I’ve heard a lot of last words since I’ve been out here. Today someone died with my name on their lips. I was someone’s dying thought and they didn’t even know me. I just happened to be there in their last moments, cradling their head in my lap and trying not to cry in the middle of an air strike. We were huddled under cover, a group of us. David had gotten a bullet through his shoulder, and another through his leg as were were running through an abandoned town._

_It shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t be who people see before they pass from this earth. It should be their loved ones, not some kid from Brooklyn who doesn’t even have his shit together._

* * *

 

_I should have let my mom teach me Gaelic. I shouldn’t have told her that I was embarrassed to know a second language._

_I remember how she cried when I told her._

_I’m gonna learn, when I get home. I’m gonna sit down in front of her and hold her hands in mine and I’m going to tell her that I would be honored if she would teach me her language._

_I don’t know why I ever thought I was ashamed._

* * *

 

_Sometimes when we get to a camp, they’re playing movies. It’s always movies about the war, John Wayne commanding troops, trying to get all of us motivated to kill nazis. To kick down the door on Hitler’s house and demand for his blood._

_I don’t like them that much, I can see right through them._

_I’m not war hungry, I don’t want this on my hands._

_Sometimes they play other movies, movies that aren’t about the war. I like those ones more. There’s an actor in most of them, he’s always the lead. He has a set jaw, and a small cleft in his chin, when he smiles you can see dimples in his cheeks. His name is Dean O’Gorman. All the guys here talk about him, everyone back in the states wants to be him._

_They say he’s stationed out in London right now, helping in the war._

_I hope he makes it out of this too._

* * *

 

_I don’t know if I’m still going to move to California if I make it out of this. Maybe I should stay in Brooklyn, go back to school. Get a degree. Live the American dream._

* * *

 

_Tony is from Brooklyn, he talks like it to. His thick accent rolling off his tongue and his hands that are always in front of his face. His squinted eyes, and how he always seems to be pissed off about something. He wears a rosary around his neck and prays every day when he wakes up._

_We get along, most people from Brooklyn do. We’re all foreigners of some kind. His parents came there from Italy. They own a deli down on 23rd, he works there to help out. He says he cuts the meat when his dad isn’t around. I ask him if he’ll go back when this is all over, he says he wants to run the shop. Wants to show his father proud._

_I told him if I make it out of this that I’ll come over to 23rd, I’ll show him how the Irish can cook. He laughs at this and says his mother would sweep me under the rug._

_I like that idea, being somewhere that isn’t here._

* * *

 

_Tony was shot, it took three days for the infection to spread. His body became pale, he coughed up blood._

_Do you want to know what his last words were?_

_“Go to 23rd, tell my ma, tell her I’m sorry about the way that I acted, about all the times I yelled at her. Tell my pop that he was right to raise his fist at me when he did. And when you’re done, ask them to make you a Tony Special, it will be the best thing you will ever eat.”_

_He died with that rosary clasped between our hands._

* * *

 

_I don’t know what my last words would be._

* * *

 

_Why all of my friends? Why not me? What have I done to deserve this? I should have died the first day, when we were set out on foot. Someone should have shot me then._

* * *

 

_My last words wouldn’t be my own, they would be everyone else's. I would try to repeat everything that has been said to me as my friends were dying. I would want everyone to know that these friends and strangers words were important. I would want them to know that they meant something to me._

* * *

 

Dean can feel the sting in his eyes and the dry tightness of his throat. He wants to clutch the letters to his chest. To hold Aidan close to him and tell him that he’s glad he survived and that everything he says to him is important.

 

“I never went to 23rd.” The voice startles him, it's quiet compared to Aidan’s normal booming voice.

 

Dean looks up to see Aidan leaning against the post holding up the center of the tent.

 

“I never went to 23rd and got that sandwich like I should have. I couldn’t look his mother in the eyes. I didn’t want her to see me and wonder why I got to live and her son didn’t.” Aidan walks inside the tent, letting the flap closed behind him. He gently takes the letters out of Dean’s hand and sets them back into the dresser, quietly shutting the drawer.

 

Dean stands up and places his hands on Aidan’s back. Aidan turns around and pulls Dean close to him, burying his face in Dean’s hair. He breathes him in, smells the heat of the desert in his skin. It’s familiar to him and comforting. It always washes out the cold and lingering of pine that always seems to be there for Aidan.

 

“I’m sorry I read…”

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Aidan repeats and holds Dean tighter this time.

 

Dean wants to tell him about London, how he sat in a heated bunker all day sending out codes. That what he did wasn’t nearly as meaningful as what Aidan did. He wants to ask Aidan if he thought about him other than that one letter. If he even remembers writing it.

 

The words die in his throat when Aidan pulls back enough and leans down to kiss Dean.

 

It's the final tug on the string and Dean finds himself completely unraveled.

 

* * *

 

That night when Aidan is asleep, Dean whispers into his curls, “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

When Dean looks at Aidan now there's a weight on his chest, heavy and immovable.

 

He wants to imagine a life where they can be together but with their careers, and with society breathing down on them he can’t fathom it.

 

He doesn’t want to give Aidan any hope.

 

He doesn’t want someone inside of him, doesn’t want their heart next to his.

 

This was never supposed to happen.

 

He wants to gather up the thread and wrap himself back up in it, this time make the stitching tighter.

 

He figures it will be better this way for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

It’s the last day of filming and they’re laying in bed, not ready to get up for the day.

 

“We can’t do this anymore, when we get back to the the states it would be better if we pretended that we were never friends.” Dean thinks that for being an actor this is a lot fucking harder to say then he thought it would be.

 

Aidan shoots up and narrows his eyes at Dean, “what do you mean?”

 

“I mean we can’t keep this up. Someone would be bound to find out.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Dean clears his throat, “this didn’t mean anything Aid.”

 

“Don’t fucking say my name like that, you have no right.” Aidan is already getting out of bed and putting his trousers on.

 

“It didn’t, it was just a fuck in the summer heat is all.” The words taste like acid on Dean’s tongue.

 

“You’re such a fucking shit liar O’Gorman.” Aidan is furiously putting on a t-shirt, only to realise it’s Dean’s and it doesn’t quite cover his stomach. He rips it off and throws it at Dean’s face.

 

“I’m not Aidan, I know it’s hard to hear…”

 

Aidan cuts him off, “fuck you, like I didn’t fucking hear you making proclamations the other night.” This time Aidan grabs the right shirt as he storms out of the tent. “And for the record, not that it matters, but I love you too, you fucking bastard.”

 

Dean feels his body go numb.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk the rest of the day and when shooting ends there's no celebration for them. Aidan already has his bag packed and he’s waiting for the bus that it to take them all to the airport.

 

Aidan changes his flight at the last moment, from L.A. to Brooklyn.

 

Dean doesn’t ask why, he’s certain it has to do with him. He wants to ask him if he’ll see his parents. If he’s learned Gaelic like he wanted to. If he gets recognized walking down avenues.

 

But Dean knows that he doesn’t have a right to know these things, and the less he knows the easier this all will be.

 

* * *

 

When Dean goes home to an empty house in the Hollywood Hills, he tries to forget about the canisters of film sitting under his projector.

 

* * *

 

Dean spends time at parties, at dinners, and meetings. He keeps himself as busy as he can and tries not to remember how Aidan trembled under his hands.

 

* * *

 

“You haven’t read a script in weeks. You’ve been sitting in the dark watching the same movies on repeat.” Dean’s agent flicks on the light, causing Dean to squint his eyes at the adjustment. “And you smell like the inside of a fucking distillery.”

 

Dean groans as he picks up a half empty bottle of scotch and takes a swig.

 

“What the fuck happened to you over there?”

 

“Nothing happened.”

 

“You’re a right liar. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you and Turner and that work on this film. Billy is a filthy genius, so what’s your deal? You aren’t nearly as much of a bastard anymore and you haven’t been leaving a trail of women in your wake.”

 

“Don’t mention his name.” Dean whispers it as he sinks down deeper into his chair.

 

His agent looks around at the titles on the canisters, and the state that Dean is in. “Didn’t know you were batting for the other team.”

 

“Don’t use fucking baseball references in regards to whom I’m fucking, or used to be anyways.” Dean takes the last swig of his bottle and when it's empty he smashes it against the wall.

 

* * *

 

Dean tries not to count down the days until the premiere.

 

He definitely does not spend his time reading articles and reviews.

 

And he does not look at the picture of Aidan smiling at a red carpet event with a woman on his arm.

 

* * *

 

He cleans up his act a few days before the event. He dumps out all the alcohol in his house and finally showers in he doesn’t know how long. He organizes the pile of scripts on his work table and marks the ones that sound the most promising.

 

When the night finally comes he spends his day practicing how to say “I’m sorry,” over and over in his head.

 

* * *

 

He gets there before Aidan does, he tries not to sound distracted during interviews, tries not to look unfocused and out of place without anyone accompanying him.

 

Eventually Aidan gets out of a long black Rolls Royce, a driver holding the door open for him. He buttons the coat of his suit in one fluid motion as he waves with the other hand.

 

Dean tries to catch his breath.

 

* * *

 

“Aidan! Dean! Can we get a picture together! Aidan! Aidan! Dean! Over here! Dean! What was it like? Aidan! Look this way! Billy said that you two got along famously! Is this you turning a new leaf Dean? No more kicking directors out of their positions? Aidan! What was it like working with someone like O’Gorman?” The words are thrown at them quickly, all rapid fire and no pause. Dean can barely wrap his head around what everyone is saying.

 

“Uh, er, it was...it was great. Aidan was phenomenal. Don’t watch this movie to see another one of my jobs, watch it to see him.” Dean walks away from one reporter and onto the next and he tries not to feel Aidan’s eyes on him.

 

* * *

 

“No, yeah, Aidan was great. He’s an amazing gent. This movie wouldn’t be the same without him.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s a much better actor than I am, you won't believe it when you see him. Hopefully he’ll be getting a lot of lead roles after this.”

 

* * *

 

Dean can’t watch the movie, he sneaks out of the auditorium when the lights dim. He walks into the bathroom and clutches his hands around the porcelain sink. A moment later the bathroom door flings open and smacks against the wall. Dean looks up and into the mirror to see Aidan storming into the bathroom.

 

“Just what in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Press.”

 

“No you aren’t, you’re down talking yourself and praising me. What gives you the right?” Aidan’s hair is coming undone from his wild movements, the slicked back hair moving out of place.

 

Dean turns around to face Aidan, who is looming over him. “Me, I gave me the right.”

 

“That’s rich. Nice to know you’re still an arrogant bastard. You toss me aside like I mean nothing, don’t even fucking call or write a letter or fucking anything at all, but you show up to this god damn premiere and think to yourself, what? That you can say nice things about me? You have no right to even be talking about me.”

 

Dean takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right, I don’t. Fuck, Aid, I have no idea what I’m doing. None at all. This is really new to me.”

 

“What is? Realizing that you aren’t as amazing as you thought you were?” Aidan knows it's a low blow but the Irish fight dirty.

 

“Being in love!” Dean practically shouts it back and immediately regrets the words. “Jesus Christ, this sounds like a damn movie playing out before my very eyes.” Dean tugs at the bow tie on his tux and undoes the knotting for it.

 

Aidan’s resolve cracks, and his defenses come down. “That from a new script?”

 

“God, no. Haven’t read a script in about a month.” Dean bundles up his bowtie and shoves it in his pocket.

 

“What have you been doing?”

 

“Watching _‘The Wild One’_ on repeat.” It’s so honest that Aidan knows it isn’t a lie.

 

He bursts out with laughter and immediately puts the back of his hand to his mouth. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh.”

 

“Yeah you did.” Dean can’t help but smirk when he says it.

 

The tension in the room seems to be dissipating.

 

“What have you been doing?” Dean wants to know if Aidan has been just as desperate as him.

 

“Filmed a movie, just had a small part in it.”

 

“What movie?”

 

“Jailhouse Rock.”

 

“That with Elvis?”

 

“Yeah, he’s kind of a prick.” They both laugh at this.

 

“God, I’ve fucking missed you Aid.”

 

“I’ve missed you too Deano.”

 

Dean steps into Aidans space, their legs touching, he reaches up with a hand, hovering it over Aidan’s cheek, “may I?”

 

“Gotten soft on me?” Aidan whispers as he leans down a bit.

 

“Shut up.” Dean says as his hand rests on Aidan’s cheek and their lips meet.

 

Dean shoves Aidan back into a bathroom stall and quickly does the button on his trousers. He gets down on his knees and puts Aidan’s cock in his mouth, making quick work of it. He takes it all the way to the hilt and swallows around the tip causing Aidan to bite his bottom lip and choke back a moan. His hands rest in Dean’s hair and he tugs on it sharply.

 

He comes hard, hot, and fast down the back of Dean’s throat. Dean looks up at him through lidded eyes, his lips swollen and covered in spit.

 

“Well that’s one way to say sorry.” Aidan pulls Dean up to him and slots their lips together once more.

 

* * *

 

They spend the after party at each other's sides, giving joint interviews and telling stories from set together.

 

At the end of the night Dean whispers in Aidan’s ear, “come home with me.”

 

* * *

 

**Six Months Later**

 

They sit in plastic chairs in a deli in Brooklyn on 23rd. They can hear shouts from the back and Johnny Cash coming through on the radio.

 

“It’s not what I expected.” Aidan says with a smile as he watches an older woman with silver streaks through her dark hair come out to the front of the little restaurant.

 

“Excuse me, Mrs.Lombardi?” Aidan gets up from his seat and walks over to the woman. He looks into her worn eyes, and the years of laughter lines that rest around them.

 

He tells her about Tony, about what had really happened. She clutches her chest and sobs, grabbing a hold of Aidan’s hands. She says she doesn’t mind how long it took him to come here, that she’s happy he came at all.

 

She brings them Tony’s favorite, the sandwich he gladly named after himself, and she sits down at the table tells them stories of her son's youth and Aidan, in exchange, tells her how fondly he spoke of home.

 

Dean can see something leaving Aidan’s eyes, a grief that he has been holding onto for too many years. He can see the tenseness in his shoulders relaxing.

 

They leave about two hours later, their arms brushing against one another.

 

“It was nice.” Aidan says as they walk to his parent’s house a few blocks over.

 

“Yeah it really was.”

 

“Definitely different than Hollywood.” Aidan nudges Dean with his elbow, earning a smile from Dean.

 

“I see why you like it. No one seems to care who we are here.”

 

“Nah, we’re New Yorkers, we’re all the same here.”

 

“Maybe we could get a place here.” Dean tries to make it sound casual but he side glances to see Aidan’s reaction.

 

“I was hoping you would say that, I was looking at this place over in Bay Ridge...what?” Aidan stops walking when he realizes Dean has stopped walking. He’s standing there with the biggest smile on his face, his dimples showing as he looks at Aidan.

 

“You’ll never stop amazing me.” He wants to pull Aidan down to him, wants to kiss him in front of all of these people. Instead he walks up next to him, close enough that when they walk their arms brush past each other. They keep their hands shoved deep inside coat pockets.

 

“I saw a listing in Bay Ridge, nice neighborhood. Used to ride my bike through there as a kid. The buildings are made from brick, a lot of it is still very colonial, original structures and all. It’s right on the water, you can see the ships coming in. Might be a bit noisy at times but I don’t really mind the commotion. It could be like a, I don’t know, a get away from L.A. home.” Aidan chatters on and Dean gets lost in his words.

 

When they get inside Aidan’s parents house Dean leans up and kisses Aidan to get him to shut up. “We can go look at the house, you’ve already convinced me.”

 

“Great, cause I made an appointment for tomorrow with a realtor.” Aidan gives Dean the cheekiest grin.

 

“Was this your plan all along?” Dean is pulling Aidan’s hands out of his pockets and entwining their fingers.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

* * *

 

There’s no more letters, Aidan finally works up the courage to burn them in the fireplace one night. Dean holds him after, running his hands down his back, and whispering into his ear as they watch the flames in the fire place die down.

 

“I know what I would say.” Aidan says quietly as he rests his head on Dean’s chest.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“That my last words would be, Dean O’Gorman is a bastard but I love him anyways.” Aidan looks up and raises his eyebrows at Dean as if he’s said the most clever thing ever.

 

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes.

 

“Ok but really, I know what I would say. I would say, make your moments count because you don’t know when you’re going to run out. So when someone comes along and you aren’t sure if you should love them, that maybe you should just love them that much more because of the uncertainty.” Aidan takes a pause before he looks into Dean’s eyes, “what would you say?”

 

“I would say, that it’s ok to be unraveled, to just let the string be tugged. To let someone see you for who you truly are.”

 

“Is that what I did?”

 

“Only in your wildest dreams.” Dean smiles, and pinches lightly on Aidan’s thigh. Aidan silences him with a kiss.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> agitating the gravel was slang for leaving
> 
> Musso and Franks is still used till this day in Hollywood.
> 
> Billy was an acclaimed writer/director. He's the creator behind The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> The Wild One is a Marlon Brando movie about a motorcycle gang.
> 
> I watched Taylor Swift's 'Wildest Dreams' video one too many times. 
> 
> I also literally wrote all of this in a day because the idea wouldn't leave me alone and my friends are dreadful instigators, so I apologize.
> 
> follow me on tumblr, at [ killaidanturner. ](http://killaidanturner.tumblr.com/)


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